


Whiskey Kisses

by EliasofPi



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Fenders is Trash but I am a recycling centre, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, collaboration fic with the comment section, intended to be smut, manly men in tights, roaming around lowtown looking for fights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliasofPi/pseuds/EliasofPi
Summary: Fenris finds himself slowly falling for golden honey eyes and burnished bronze hair, watching from the sidelines with his heart trapped in amber.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	1. A Light Stabbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not getting stabbed for fun and profit but getting stabbed because your friend is an asshole who takes you to dangerous places expecting to not to get stabbed.

The swirl of amber seemed to follow him in his slightly delirious state, the whiskey in his cup and the fire in the eyes of the Mage across the table. Something had been said earlier in the night, though he hardly remembered what at this point, and neither of them was known to be forgiving. Hawke watched, disappointed, behind what Fenris knew was a decent hand of cards.

Anders, however, had a hand likely worse than his own, given the glare he levelled at his cards and their friends, even the dog. Fenris glanced back to his own cards and folded with a slight grunt, draining the remains of his cup and leaning it towards Varric for another share of the bottle.

He closed his eyes and his mind wandered lazily through alcohol scattered thoughts. He regained his cup but opening his eyes to the room let him see the whiskey kissed mage across from him. For a moment, he was just an attractive man with a terrible frown, long bronze hair, and warm honey eyes. Anders watched, gaze flicking around the room but settled on him, perhaps hoping he’d have looked away by now, and Fenris let himself sit, stuck like an insect trapped in amber, in that gaze for as long as the moment would last. 

The mage drew his eyes away first, back to his terrible cards. Fenris was still stuck though, unable to slide away from the mage as he sipped his whiskey. His mind was blessedly blank, his body was numb, and the sounds around him swelled like the ocean until there were no words, only waves, sweeping him towards unfamiliar shores.

As the evening ended, Fenris watched the mage as he gathered his things. His body felt sluggish, his movements requiring great effort as though he were pushing himself through water … _or amber_. He wandered home, the torchlight of Hightown catching on the weathered chantry statues, his otherwise blessedly empty mind filled with flashing images of long burnished bronze strands and a beaten frown. His bed was welcoming as he spread out on his back and stared up from behind tired eyes at the array of constellations and pale sky dust weaving a story to which he fell asleep.

Dawn broke, warm hues bathing him in heat and sweat, and he rolled from the bed, wandering over towards a world bathed in golden light- honey and amber and bronze. Something familiar clawed at the back of his mind, intoxicating like whiskey and wine, and he ached to reach for it as it danced away from him. He pushed the frustration away as he went about his morning stretches and sword work.

Hawke called in for the afternoon, dragging him through sewers and side streets, seeking the unknown and itching for a fight. His skills were dulled from his indulgences, but he was still sharper than those they fought, _up until he wasn’t_. He slumped against a mudbrick wall, poisoned dagger wounds to the stomach that made bile and blood rise in his throat, Hawke panicking as he tried to bind them and fumbling to feed him a potion until they could get to Darktown.

He floated in and out of consciousness on the way, closing his eyes and opening them in new alleys or down a different set of stairs, until he leaned bodily against the wall of the clinic as Hawke begged for Anders’ attention. Words swam just outside of reach, he tried to speak in kind, but his tongue did not work, and the expressions of his allies only worsened as he was guided to a cot to lay down.

The mage was quick to work over him but the healing, as always, was hell, ripping him apart where the potion had bound him and pulling him back together piece by agonising piece, his screams frightening many of the healer’s patients out of the clinic as he blinked in and out of waking. The process was slow, the lyrium leeching through his body in blinding white, but Anders worked tirelessly with Hawke hovering nearby.

When dusk had fallen and left Darktown shadowed by night, Fenris roused to the warm smell of herbs and honey- _amber, burnished bronze, the pale halo of sunlight on freckled cheeks_ \- and he pushed himself to rest on his elbows, the injuries in his abdomen still burning in the gradual healing process after likely lifesaving work. A cool, damp cloth pressed to his forehead as the warm mixture met his lips, a warmer voice in his ear as he tried to swallow around the discomfort in his throat.

The mixture dribbled down his chin as he weakly reached to tip the last of it into his mouth, cool hands on his to steady his actions. The cloth was removed and replaced; the cup taken away as he was assisted back into a comfortable position, his vision clearing slightly to see firelight catching on burnished bronze hair and whiskey kissed eyes. Although the man above him was quite obviously frowning, Fenris couldn’t help the pull of a smile as he slipped back to sleep.


	2. Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excessive alcohol consumption because Fenris is a wineo (an alcoholic who has resorted to getting drunk off wine stored away in his home). That might be an Australian exclusive term, but it's yours now, do with it as you will.

Fenris was roused in the middle of the night, his body aching as his muscles seized. The embers of the dying fire cast the only light and it was not quite enough to function. He reflexively lit the lyrium in his skin and blacked out for a moment as his very being burned with pain. Cool hands pressed against him, trying to keep him in his cot as he thrashed, bodily shaking while light flickered through his skin.

His throat was raw, he'd been screaming, and the figure above him winced with every spark of lyrium, the fade light of his passenger crackling across his skin but never quite caught amber eyes- _whiskey, honey, warm breath, burnished bronze_ \- he tried to force himself to remain still in the cot, fighting the convulsions that worked through him as the healer held him down. The pale man's lip is split, nose bent, and a dried trail of blood could be seen in the fuzz on his chin. Fenris did that, he didn't know how, but he knew he did.

Healing magic began to seep into him and his throat opened in broken sobs as tears welled in his eyes, the fade tearing him apart and trying to stitch him back together how it thought he should fit, and for a moment he saw the ghosts drawn to the magic, flitting around the cot as curious sprites, brushing against his skin the same places the healer's magic swarmed. The last thing he sees before he blacked out again was amber eyes and the tears rolling down the healer's cheeks- _he was trapped like an insect, writhing but every movement only embedded him deeper_ \- that finally swarmed with fade light.

When he woke, he leant feverish flesh into the cool hands that held him, a damp cloth applied to his sweating skin to help cool him down. He hadn't realised he was burning up but the warm air of Darktown was cold against his skin where his tunic was pulled open so the healer could access his back and sides. He tried to hold back a sob, though given the motions of the hands ceased for a second, he knew he had failed to restrain the pitiful noise.

The healer finished his work and provided another mug of warm herb and honey tea. The hands that held him shook faintly, and Fenris rested a hand on that which held the mug, his other hand moved forward to grab at the healer's shirt. His lip and nose were healed by then, but there was yet another bend to the bridge and Fenris cursed himself for it, marring the handsome face of the healer as many others had before him.

A cool hand lay over his own, weakly curled into the thin fabric of the man's shirt and Fenris idly realised this is one of few times he'd seen him without his ridiculous coat, just a linen shirt and trousers, his mussed hair indicated he'd rolled out of bed for this. Fenris wanted to thank him but the words caught in his throat, raw from screaming. His hands fell weakly from where they rested, though his fingertips followed an invisible line down the healer's chest close enough that his hand shifted with the rise and fall of his breath, his eyes slid shut as his fingertips finally met air between the healer's knees and sleep claimed him.

He dreamt though he had hoped not to, of a fire's warmth and honey on his tongue, the smooth slide of his fingers through bronze hair. The flames of the fire danced around them and tears dropped to the battlefield of blood. His body was broken, something sinister lingered in the corner of his eye and neither of them could quite see it. He was so tired and aching, his skin crisscrossed in shallow wounds that no healer could heal any more. Anders knelt on the ground at his feet, his eyes downcast. Fenris reached for him, tilted his chin up as he dropped to his knees, combing back long hair to meet cold blue fade light. His hand burned over the man's forehead, the mark of a blazing sun branded into his skin and Fenris knows how that feels- they scream in unison and the world erupted around them.

He woke, gasping for breath, half out of the cot before he even recognised where he was or what was going on, the pale light of dawn barely breaking through the density of Darktown's smog, leaving only an ambient pallor to the world around him. His made it up onto shaking legs, sweat-slicked skin exposed to the underworld, and he shivered as an unnatural chill passed through him from his toes, along his spine, to the back of his skull. The passage to the back room of the clinic was open and he could hear the fitful breathing of the healer, having slept near enough to him many times to be familiar with his nightmare induced whimpering.

He reached for his tunic and sword, slowly encasing himself in his armour and leaving to crawl through the cellar entrance to the Hawke Estate. He shuffled through the darkness, keenly aware of the pain in his body from his skin to his bones as he made his way up and into the foyer of the manor. The Dwarven merchant and his enchantment addled son watched him with curious eyes but Fenris ignored them as best he could, slipping out into the morning light of Hightown and back to his hovel in the wall.

The siren song of wine drew him to the cellar and he buried himself in a bottle, pressing his burning skin against the cool stonework. He lost quite a few hours laying there, staring at the stone and thinking about nothing until the pain truly emerged and one bottle wasn't enough to dull it. Another bottle down and he was back in the state of delirium he had experienced only a night and a half before, sound distorted as it passed through him.

Leather soled boots kept a steady pat-pat-pat against the broken tiles of the foyer and Fenris tried to focus his concentration on whoever approached him in this place, prepared enough to know where he'd be but stupid enough to come without a guard. He raised himself from the floor onto slightly swaying footsteps and settled into a hiding place, hoping to either wait out the unwanted visitor or shoo them away if they persisted.

He readied himself as the person stopped in the doorway, deep breath inhaling elfroot and honey- _amber, burnished bronze, the smell of sawdust and stale sea air_ \- he tried to shake himself from the claws of familiar fantasy as he leaned himself further into the corner. He intended to hide, and if that didn't work, he would give the man the wrath of one of his cold glares and stern words.

Anders called his name into the cool cellar, taking the few steps down until he held a steady stance on the stone floor. Fenris pressed himself further into his corner, nose twitching as the scent and sensation of the healer filled his addled senses. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on hearing the mage's steps as he came closer.

The healer called again, his dim tone expressing the frown that Fenris could see on his face without even looking at him. The man seemed to linger for a few moments before turning to the stairs, leaving the cellar behind. Fenris waited until he could hear his footsteps in the foyer before easing his breathing and stepping out from his hiding place.

He did not fear the mage. He simply did not wish to spend too long in his presence, for reasons that were entirely his own.

He waited out the Mage's enquiry into his abode, heard him ascend and descend the stairs shortly after, making his way back to the manor door and shutting it behind him. Fenris made the mental note to get a lock or barricade for the door, to prevent future unwanted visits. He sunk to the stone ground, groaning softly as the cool of the stone suffused through his leathers into his skin.

The next visitor he received was more thorough than Anders, striding through the manor until he found Fenris in the cellar and squatted down near him, scratching idly at his dark beard.

"Hawke," Fenris grunted by way of greeting, holding a tepid bottle to his forehead where he had practically melted into the corner.

"Anders was worried about you," the human starts instead, picking at his fingernails with a disinterested look.

"I do not need his concern," Fenris tried to bite back, but his words had slurred by the fourth bottle of wine, around the same time when up had become down and he found it was safer to lay on the floor than try moving about anymore.

"You're a big boy, I'm aware," Hawke mused with a slight smirk, muddy brown eyes flicking over to Fenris, drinking in his disgusted snarl and returning to his fingernails.

Fenris remained silent, eyelids heavy as he rotated the bottle for the cool glass on the other side.

"You'll be at the game tonight?" Hawke asked, but it was hardly a question, more the request of a friend.

Fenris grunted his assent and rolled slightly to one side, glancing up at the squatting rogue in the cellar beside him and assessing just how vulnerable he wanted to be around him. Should he share his strange dreams, those of last night and countless nights before? Should he ask this unknowing man, still practically a stranger in many ways, the meaning behind his thoughts of gold and honey and- _amber, elfroot stained fingertips, the pale halo of sunlight behind burnished bronze, whiskey kissed breath that sent shivers down his spine_ \- he shifted uncomfortably, making another sound of disgust as he reigned in his wayward thoughts, the rogue looking down at him curiously.

"Bring the coin you owe me," Hawke grinned, standing and glancing around the cellar.

"I owe you no coin, Hawke," Fenris bit back, pushing himself to sit.

"You will," the bearded man teased and lightly stepped out of the cellar, then out of the house, before Fenris could come up with a sufficiently bitter retort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly expect a later chapter will be an _Indulgence of a different kind_ ...


	3. Fever Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Sandman, Sand me a Man (with amber eyes and freckle kissed hands)

Fenris spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the cool stone floor of the cellar, contemplating but never quite reaching the point where he felt the fourth bottle of wine was necessary, given the third had done little to dull his throbbing pain, radiating from a notable central point. That, and he was expected to be somewhat sober enough to wander his way to Lowtown again for the evening. He sobered himself up with a bucket of cold water to his feverish flesh, stripped down and doused himself. He sat as the tepid water cooled on his skin with the slow breeze of the afternoon. He dressed when he could finally focus his gaze and armed himself, heading out for the Hanged Man shortly after dusk.

He was not the first to arrive, nor was he the last to the table. He sat at a point equally distant from Hawke, Varric, and Isabela to protect his cards. Hawke appeared distracted, engaging in idle conversation with any who would have him. Varric offered him a share of whiskey again but he refused, too quickly swept up in memories of golden liquid like amber eyes- _burnished bronze, the smell of rain and elfroot, freckled lips that never smiled for him_ \- and focused on his cards.

He had hoped in vain. The moment the healer entered, the room brightened, candle and hearth flames flickering brighter as they arced towards his golden form, much as Fenris would like to arch towards him. What conversation that had settled before his arrival was renewed with vigour as he took a seat beside Hawke and his dog. Fenris didn’t have a direct line of sight, but he could, if he had wanted to, and how desperately he had wanted to, but he kept himself squared towards Varric. Even across the table, he could feel the healer’s warmth, a calm confidence that brightened his eyes every time he laughed and oh how Fenris enjoyed hearing him laugh- _the sharp crack of a log in the fire, the clap of lightning to his rumble of thunder, vivid and vibrant_ \- he was all too easily entranced by the man. He pulled his face into a permanent scowl as he warred with his emotions.

He focused on his cards and tried to push the persistent presence of the healer out of sight and out of mind. He turned to Varric to focus more on his tells rather than stopping his tells from showing. He noticed that it didn’t take long until it was the two of them left, staring one another down like a hunter would their prey, willing the other to put down his cards and fold.

“I can do this all night, Broody,” Varric said, taking a sip from his drink while masterfully maintaining eye contact.

“As can I,” Fenris countered, forcing himself to relax into his seat and keep an eye on the dwarf.

They stayed like that, one against the other for long enough for the topic of conversation around them to change three times over when he noticed the vibrant presence lighting to the room had dimmed. He flicked his eyes over to Hawke, expecting to see the healer there beside him, but he was not. Fenris swallowed around the clench of his throat and tried to turn back to his cards. It was only a winning hand if Varric folded, he had no chance if they agreed to show, especially as he had seen the rogue slide a card into his sleeve earlier. It was a matter of pride that prevented Fenris from every cheating.

The vibrant light of the healer didn’t return and Fenris’ skin itched, and not in a familiar way. He felt cold, a strange kind of loss, and grunted, showing his pitiful hand and standing up from his seat. He pushed the discarded hand towards Varric and stepped out from the table with a gruff ‘goodnight’ to those who might hear him, swiftly stepping out the door and back into the taproom of the hanged man. There was no sight of bronze or amber except in the coins exchanged and glasses raised. He pushed through the crowd to the exit and stepped out onto the street, instinctually stepping towards Darktown.

“Fenris?” Amber eyes regarded him with confusion as Anders stepped back around the corner towards the door of the Hanged Man, catching him off guard.

He had no words, so they stood there for some time in absolute silence, the healer watching him and Fenris hunched in on himself, trying not to look so certain in the direction he had started heading. His mouth was dry and any words he considered caught in his throat even as he glanced down at his feet.

“I’m glad you’re walking around, though I would have liked the chance to check on you before you left. Is there any lingering pain?” Anders broke the silence and the warmth of his voice moved through Fenris like a wave in the ocean, a deep breath as he was submerged in moments by his memory of that voice against his ear, telling him to slow down- and how he knew his mind had used that against him when he slept, dreamt of burnished bronze in his hands, whiskey kisses to his lips.

“No,” Fenris lied smoothly, desperately trying to change the direction of his thoughts even as his fingers twitched to touch him- _elfroot stains, freckled fingertips_ \- and raised his eyes to stare defiantly at the man before him.

“Well … Good. If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” Anders finished dismissively and stepped by him, back towards the tavern.

Fenris swallowed around the clench of his throat and turned, gauntleted hand reaching out for the healer, his claws catching on the elbow of his coat, enough of a touch to stop the man before he left him alone on the street. Anders turned and regarded him with something much like confusion but also something warmer, distant and bright.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, hardly able to raise his voice, but the mage heard him and smiled. It was not his wide, unbearable grin he shared in revelry, but a small, intimate curve of the lips, kind eyes as sweet as honey- _warm breath on the curves of his ear, cool hands holding his in a gentle embrace, the endless fall of burnished bronze silky between his fingers_ \- he had pressed back into the sweaty heat of the tavern by the time Fenris returned to rational thought.

The door weakly blocked out the light and sound and joy from the taproom within. He felt a fool chasing the mage out here, but he could hardly return to the table so closely behind the healer, something he knew Varric would notice. He spared a glance towards the direction of Darktown and frowned, a hand raised to rest over the wounds of his stomach. He shook his head, kept his gaze sharp, and returned to the manor in Hightown.

He crawled into his bed, thoughts distracted and drifting though he tried hard not to think of the whiskey kissed mage, his genuine smile and warmth, the way he spoke his name. He quickly found he could think of little else, caught in daydream memories where his affection might be reciprocated, where his kiss is craved, and he needed no words to tell how he feels. He dreamt of simple pleasures as he slipped into the Fade.

Dawn light and elfroot, floating weightless, suspended in a sunbeam, fingers carded through burnished bronze locks and his tongue holds the taste of whiskey and wine. The figure in his arms was nothing short of angelic but his own hands twist with lyrium, red as blood, burning through him with a chill that settled in his bones and set him shivering. Golden eyes watch him as a pale, freckled hand reached into his chest and wrapped around his heart as he would any other. He screamed but opening his mouth only let the seawater into his lungs until it consumed him, his body swept away like foam on the rolling tide, washed against the shore, dispersed amongst grains of sand.

He woke, choking on his own vomit, barely able to pull himself over the side of the bed to wreck his stomach onto the floor. He heaved and it was heavy and acrid, tears dropped into the mess and horrid smell. His body shook, the chill in his bones exaggerated by the cool night air, the lyrium an ever-present burn in his flesh, twisting and breaking through his skin to suffocate him like vines. He turned from the ruins of his stomach on the floor, rolled back to wipe the sweat from his face with shaking hands.

Even after all of that, even with the taste of bile in his mouth, he could close his eyes and see golden amber- _burning and angry, it hurt much more than anything else he has suffered_ \- he did everything he could to keep his eyes open for the rest of the night until dawn arrived, memory faded, and he finally fell into fitful rest once again.


	4. The Folly of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make a kiss happen this chapter but Angst(TM) decided to wrestle its way to the forefront ... sorry not sorry?

The chill that had wrapped around his heart stayed with him for many lonely nights, though Fenris somehow managed to shake off the dreams, nightmares unable to chase him into morning light as he slipped from the fade and they slipped from memory. He could close his eyes and see darkness, and it gave a measure of relief even as the memory of burning amber eyes haunted him. Whenever he stood in the sunlight, he felt himself burn as though on fire, yet he shied away from the cellar where it echoed the ice grip inside of his chest.

He encouraged his sore muscles through recovery stances and fighting patterns that would warm the stiffness from his body’s bed rest. He spent hours performing these motions, slow and steady and deliberate, until his muscles ached, and his hands stung, the healed wounds to his stomach pulling unpleasantly at new and old flesh alike.

The bile in his throat persisted despite the water he downed, and the sweet sting of wine was one he could not bring himself to bear given how poorly it had treated him in recent memory. When his body begged him to drop his sword, he gathered himself and headed out into Hightown for a distraction, drawn between the markets, the steps to Lowtown which would take him to the Hanged Man, and the ever curious Red Lantern district, where he inevitably ended up.

He had no need of the services, and certainly trusted neither proprietor not patrons, but he was partial to the heady honey mead The Rose provided. He settled himself in a corner with a bottle and let his eyes wander the display of flesh, such a thing usually reserved to places he’d rather not remember of Tevinter and his past. Various man and women entertained the guests, Templars and City Guard among those wooed by their wiles, but Fenris found it all lacking, instead drawn to the brief flash of golden hair hiding green eyes, freckled skin of a red haired elf, the bronze jewellery that bedecked nearly every presence. It was all very close but not quite the thing he seemed to be aching for. He set the now empty bottle of mead aside, his early afternoon wasted, and wandered from the hall of debauchery utterly unsatisfied.

Amongst those who wandered Hightown, Fenris began to follow his feet on the way back to his manner, but a brief flash of a coat, dappled green with brown feathers and pale bandages wrapped around the forearms, had Fenris distracted and chasing the tail of someone who may or may not have been a vagabond healer from Darktown. He made it to the steps by Hawke’s manor, losing sight of the subject of his pursuit, and turned back to the wandering crowds dispersed behind him until something shifted in his peripheral- _amber golden eyes, trapping him like an insect, crooked nose, and furrowed brows cut through by stray strands of stubborn burnished bronze hair_ \- and the cold that gripped around his heart melted in an instant.

“Maker’s balls, I thought you were a Templar,” The mage said, lowering the staff he had raised in a defensive manner.

Fenris quickly took note of how relaxed his posture had become in seeing the mage and quickly seized up again, drawing his shoulders square as he balled his fists. He didn’t have time to compile his response before Anders was speaking again.

“Here to see Hawke? Not that I care, but it’s good to see you up and about. You should have stayed longer for cards the other night, I well and truly got my ass handed to me,” the mage rambled and for a moment Fenris found himself thinking of the mage’s ass - _smooth, round, and freckled mounds rising from thin hips_ \- before he shoved the thoughts away, though not before it nestled somewhere sordid.

“No,” Fenris answered, though struggled with how to follow such a response without incriminating himself.

“Oh, okay,” Anders continued hesitantly, taking a half step closer to Hawke’s manor door, his form no longer casual.

Fenris pushed the points of his gauntlets into his palms to stop himself from reaching out to still the mage, to prevent his retreat so that he may have time to form his words before the man formed his opinion.

“You just … happen to be standing on the steps up to Hawke’s place? Having followed me across the district from my attempts at evading a templar patrol because …?” Anders provided with a hint of fear and Fenris wanted to smother it, or him- _hooded golden eyes watch him as his hand, dark and lined in lyrium, covers the mage’s mouth, his back arched, chest bare, skin flushed pink as he exhales hard against Fenris’ fingers_ \- with another hedonistic thought for the steadily growing vault.

“It is unsafe for you to traverse Hightown alone. The templars are more active between the Rose and the Chantry,” Fenris provided unhelpfully, trying to keep his reasons to himself.

“I hardly expected you to be offering yourself as an escort, Fenris- though I could have worse company, I’m sure,” Anders quipped back, his stance relaxing as he leaned on his staff, one hand still positioned in such a way that, should he need it, he’d be able to utilise the weapon in the blink of an eye. Fenris had witnessed as much before.

He grimaced and huffed, turning his head to glance back at the swarm of people behind them, taking note of every winged helmet that wandered on squared shoulders. He turned back to the mage, though his hackles were raised after having counted more than a dozen in the moment he’d taken to survey the sea of stragglers.

“Not one for conversation right now, huh?” Anders said, and something in his tone made Fenris’ heart clench unpleasantly like guilt.

“Another time,” Fenris suggested as he turned on his heel and took the steps down into the forum. 

He strode purposefully across towards the Chantry and the manor, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut at having concerned the mage and yet leaving him alone. Hawke could be out, or busy, Anders could still get spotted by a Templar on his way back to Darktown- no, Hawke would allow him to use the conveniently located estate’s basement passages to return to his clinic.

He lingered in the atrium of the manor for some time as he paced a dent into the tiles, hardly remembering the minute it took to get there.

He should return, perhaps excuse himself by visiting Hawke, though concluded he often thought he had much to say and was yet unable to find the words when he was face to face with the subject of his internal torment. He spread his fingers and began peeling off the gauntlets in order to save his bruising palms any further abuse as he fidgeted restlessly, the healed wounds in his abdomen throbbing faintly.

His attention stirred at a knock on the manor door, loud enough to be noticed, though soft enough he would likely have missed it were he pacing the bedroom. He glanced through a crack in the wall to observe his visitor and, in catching sight of feathered pauldrons and bronze hair, opened the door with barely a thought. A freckled hand was raised to eye level, a second away from knocking again.

“Oh … hello,” Anders offered meekly, glancing back to the plaza behind him, as he dropped his hand and fidgeted with the ties of his coat. When Fenris didn’t find an answer in time, the mage continued.

“May I come in?”

Fenris stepped aside and opened the door enough for the man to slip inside, closing it behind him after a cursory glance of his own for winged helmets, insects that would trap himself in amber he’d rather keep to himself. Even inside the atrium, the mage seemed restless and Fenris fought the desire to reach out and still him.

“What do you have need of, Mage?” Fenris asked, trying to keep his tone low and disinterested.

The man deliberated for a moment with a few muttered words before finally squaring his shoulders and attempting to pull a smile as he addressed Fenris properly.

“I just wanted to check on you, how you’re doing, the injuries- mostly the injuries, don’t want you pulling anything out of place if we can help it,” he blathered.

“I am fine mage, I am accustomed to the lengths of the healing process,” Fenris said, but began stripping himself of the armour covering his torso anyway, placing it aside with his gauntlets. Something in him wanted Anders to see, wanted him to touch, wanted more fuel for the fires of his fantasies.

The mage stayed blessedly silent as he stripped and Fenris could hardly fight the desire to preen under his gaze. He removed the final piece and glanced towards the mage from his peripheral as he worked on the fixings of his shirt- _wide eyes of honey, too sweet, too warm, slightly parted plush pink lips, a flush climbing his cheeks just subtly beneath his freckles_ \- and he let the garment slip from his shoulders to set aside, turning his marred body to the mage so he might see the faint scars of the perfect healing work performed less than a week before.

“May I?” The mage asked softly as he stepped closer, hands stilling where they reached forward.

Fenris exhaled with a slight sound of affirmation and the man’s cool fingertips met his skin, sending a ripple of tension through his body from the source of the touch. Anders experimentally tested the elasticity of the skin and pressed against the old wound, eyes watching Fenris for a reaction though he received none other than a hissed intake of breath. The man pulled his hands away and folded them under his arms, smiling with a strain as he took a few steps back.

“All good there, not problems,” Anders said, his voice wavering slightly, and Fenris felt colder after his touch than he did before, reaching for his sleeveless tunic to hide himself and his shame.

Once he was reasonably dressed again, he turned back to Anders with a calculating look. The mage lingered though his task was done, and Fenris longed to reach out and give him some new direction, perhaps up the stairs and into his bed- _his freckle kissed skin blushing, amber eyes and the scent of elfroot, a fan of burnished bronze_ \- and he shook his head though one thought lingered a moment too long.

_Burnished Bronze._

Why did the mage make him think of burnished bronze so specifically when any combination of words might describe the metallic sheen of his hair? It hung like chains- _thick and solid around his neck, his wrists, his ankles, pushed forward in a procession of naked bodies, another link to the train, a seemingly endless supply of slaves_ \- he took in a shuddered breath and finally understood his fixation. A reminder not to make attachments, to not give oneself to anything, to revel in freedom. He turned his back on the mage.

“You may leave now,” he stated, his tone harsh and voice low.

Anders lingered for a few moments, hesitant, and Fenris knew that fear, lived that fear. He left, the door closing heavily behind him and Fenris felt it echo within him, but the pleasurable memories lingered, like an insect trapped in amber, on this side of the divide.


	5. Unfamiliar Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of light is shed on Fenris' specific illness, a matter of indulgence and over indulgence.

His self-hatred was unforgiving as he lay on the floor by the dying embers of the fire, a sick feeling of fear twisted his stomach in knots at the thought of subjecting himself to the chill of the cellar for more wine, even as the night sky twinkled starlight through the holes in the roof. He watched them and let the heat wash over him as his eyelids grew heavy. It had been hours since his indulgence at the Rose, since he had seen the healer, had let him touch his scares and test his healing and yet he still slipped into the vivid recollections of slavery, few and fleeting though they were, that he had never remembered before, moments he could not otherwise recall.

He considered that perhaps they were from before his markings, that they were something previously lost to him, but they remained just out of reach. He had hardly wasted time wondering about his life both before the markings and since but found he was drawn to little else when drunk and dreary. He rolled over to face the fire, the radiant heat drying his eyes as he gazed into the dwindling flames. The warmth wrapped around him with heavy arms that were difficult to shake, and he fell into fitful sleep of nightmares and half-forgotten memories.

He dreamt of red hair, a child’s laughter, the weight of the chains around his wrists, the struggle of marching with chains threaded between his ankles, one in a line behind and in front of several other slaves, as far as the eye could see. He dreamt of a dark-haired man and, though his face was obscured, he was certain in an instant this was Danarius, which only lead to panicking and a swift shift into his memory of the Fog Warriors, their blood staining the beach sand.

He was running, his lungs lacked air and he panted, but he did not cease. His legs were sore, his muscles burning with exertion, but even as he fell onto his hands and knees, he still crawled far from Danarius and far from the memories, into a clearing of warm sunlight. He tried to remind himself of the dangers of the fade, of demons’ tricks and that no such thing happened in his memory- _raining, aching, running, the slap of bare feet in shallow puddles, the shrink of leather against his skin, not stopping for hours, not until after the rain had subsided, the moon had glimpsed the horizon, a dirty hovel of a village with a barn in which he hid long enough to catch his breath_ \- the sunlight warm and soothing, sinking through his ache and easing tension.

In the middle of the clearing, he turned, taking in the wall of the forest around him, Seheron’s thick jungle. His vision spun as he tried to find the path he took through the green but it was not there, and he stopped still, drawn to a figure that somehow approached from all around, warmth and light and the smell of elfroot and a crackling fire. It enveloped him and he struggled against it, fighting the feeling of safety and security it gave him, trying to remind himself that the Fade is a dangerous place, that there is no other realm for dreaming until he felt stuck, his limbs held- _like an insect in amber, trapped and struggling but too tired to move, too placated by the saccharine smell and comfortable warmth_ \- a familiar voice murmuring words in his ear that he couldn’t quite understand.

“It’s alright,” the voice murmured between soothing nonsense, cool dampness pressed to his forehead as the clearing blurred around him. He struggled weakly, limbs heavy and unmoving, against the growing darkness as he was pulled from the warmth of the sun.

“It’s just a dream,” the voice continued, warm breaths by his ear as his limbs finally moved- no, _were moved_.

“You’ll be okay,” came the response to the weak, distressed noises he could manage to pull from his lungs, as the darkness grew and then settled out into the warm rich light of a fireside. He didn’t remember camping, was he at the manor? Where was the fire? He could feel the heat on his back but see the light at his front, a disorienting sensation, to say the least.

“I’ve got you,” the murmur of that familiar voice assured him as he roused to the familiar sight of the holey manor ceiling. The healer, Anders, was kneeling by his side, a damp cloth in hand that he was using to dab at the exposed skin between layers of leather.

“Anders?” he asked, his voice weak and tongue heavy, the result quite slurred.

“It’s alright, let me take care of you, you’ll drink yourself to death if you’re not careful,” the scolding was weak, at best, though he could sense the undertones of concern. He felt no compulsion to continue the conversation, letting the mage continue his pattering as he was lulled to semi-consciousness.

“Why … why are you here?” He managed between struggled attempts at sitting up which were met by the healer’s insistence he stay laying down.

“When you let me check you earlier, I noticed some distressing symptoms, and I figured this was going to happen sooner or later. I let myself in, hope you don’t mind, though you really should get a lock for your door,” Anders babbled, though it seemed to serve as a good distraction as his tremoring hands rested.

“You got yourself into this mess, you know,” Anders piped up again after a long moment of silence.

“What mess?” He asked, turning his scrutinising gaze on the healer and his collection of things so close to him by the fire.

“The fever … or nausea,” he was supplied with a knowing glance. “How long have you been experiencing illness?”

The healer handed him a cup of freshwater, which he used to clean out his mouth from the combination of cottony sensation and lingering bile. The smell finally reached his senses, now that he was out from the influence of elfroot and ash, and he noticed the small puddle of sick that someone had brought up right where he’d been restlessly sleeping. It was undoubtedly his own given the mage’s comments.

“It is new,” Fenris answered, though he’d hardly been free of such symptoms before. Kirkwall inspired illness, it seemed, but Anders seemed genuinely concerned.

“Does Hawke know?” the concern only grew as the healer collected his things into his satchel.

“Perhaps, though I don’t think he knows that he knows,” Fenris answered, sitting up and plucking at the edges of his leather layers where sweat-slicked skin drew shivers from the cool midnight air.

“Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s been helped at all by being stabbed. Your liver’s been getting worse though, it might be the alcohol. How much have you been drinking?” With his things pulled together, Anders sat on the tiles beside him and watched him with the knowing eyes of a healer.

“Not enough,” Fenris answered easily, feeling the oncoming headache that he often quelled with wine.

“Or too much,” the healer offered cryptically and damn it if the concern in those golden eyes didn’t drown him in something like guilt.

“You think this is related to my drinking?” he raised a quizzical eyebrow towards warm eyes hiding behind burnished bronze, quickly averting to stare into the fire instead when his mind began wandering places he did not want so recently into waking with the healer’s company.

“Alcohol can make people sick, both from consumption and from lack of consumption after a great deal of the stuff. I think you have an alcohol fever because I can find nothing else wrong with you,” Anders answered clinically, and from the corner of his eye, Fenris could see him staring into the fire equally pensively.

“You think I should stop drinking?” Fenris asked, though his subconscious wept at the thought of doing so.

“I do,” those eyes turned to him as Fenris was just about to turn back to the fire and the ache in them made him pause. Somehow, this was hurting Anders and although he took great joy in exercising his freedom by speaking his mind with no repercussions, he had always felt actions weighed more than words, and right now his actions were causing the healer a measure of distress.

“And if I don’t?” He already knew the answer, he’d seen the situation often enough in the elder magisters of the Imperium whom Danarius had freely associated within their later years.

“You’ll die,” the healer’s voice was barely a whisper but Fenris heard him clearly, nodding and fixing his gaze into the embers.

“You still have a tiger to face, after all, it would be a shame to go before you’ve had the chance to invoke justice,” he continued after a moment and Fenris let his eyes close, taking a moment to compile his thoughts.

“I will think on what you’ve said. Is there anything you might offer me to assist in the process?” Fenris weighed his words before sharing them, moving his eyes to meet the healer in an unexpected glance.

“I have antitoxin, though, in the long run, it will do nearly just as much damage as the drinking has, it will soothe the symptoms for now,” Anders rifled through his satchel and pulled out a vial of deep purple liquid.

“Take it now and try to avoid drinking or eating anything until morning, and if you do need anything, only drink water, a cup at most, in small sips.”

Fenris handled the vial for a moment as the healer picked himself up from the floor, popped the cork and downed the contents. It was foul, but he would do as the kind-eyed healer recommended, he had never been one to see him hurt.

He kept his gaze focused on the fire, fighting his pride until Anders was just about to close the door behind him in leaving.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly, the only sign of recognition on the healer’s behalf being the momentary stall of the door closing behind him. He heard and that was enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative piece between the author and the comments section because plotting is hard and fanservice is easy.  
> If you have something you'd like to see in the overarching story (because I somehow can't write porn without plot which is where this is inevitably going) or in the next chapter, let me know in the comments below.


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